She is not dead! She is not dead!
the Naiads chant; the lilies ope,
and last year’s violets lift their head
with doubt and hope.

She is not dead! She is not dead!
the meadow and the gorse refrain,
and every swallow that had fled
is home again.

She is not dead! She is not dead!
the crows who graze amongst the lambs
sing and the swans who make their bed
twixt reeds and dams.

She is not dead! She is not dead!
The daisy dominates the scene,
and every moonstone birch is clad
in vernal green.

She lives! She lives! the bells ring out
the joyful tiding to be spread
like wildfire as the sparrows shout:
She is not dead!

The first time that I saw her
she wasn’t anywhere
with eyes full of young vigour
and daisies in her hair;
minueting to the music
of Dionysian flutes,
she only wore a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

She dances to the carols
of nightingale and lark,
she dances in the sunlight,
she dances in the dark;
light as the dandelion’s
slow-drifting parachutes,
she only wears a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

And when she walks the pastures
where crows and cattle feed,
embraces rain and thunder
or sleeps amidst the reed,
and when she lifts the chalice
or tastes of mellow fruits,
she only wears a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

The last time that I’ll see her
she won’t be anywhere
with eyes full of young vigour
and daisies in her hair;
with her I shall be leaving,
returning to my roots:
she’ll only wear a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

The Countess on the barricades
saw, as her snipers spread,
a man with a brown paper bag
he carried on his head.

As he approached the Green, she ordered
her men to hold their fire:
‘He’s gonna feed them bally birds’,
she guessed from his attire.

He was the park keeper; she told
her men to clear the way
so he could look after the ducks
and feed them twice a day.

Those who did not agree with her
could hear their chief declare:
We, comrades, do our duty here,
as he does his down there!

Would it not be hypocrisy
if we would use a war
to stop a man from doing what
we claim we’re fighting for?

Since man began
to count his own achievements,
betrayals and bereavements,
he also counts his mates.

And while the smile
of lovers is misleading,
we think that we are breeding
a species that relates.

One call ends all
the visions that could enter
our brainpans’ creamy centre,
and every dream deflates.

Today we pay
the price for not embracing
ourselves as we are facing
the Mother of all Fates.

Take part by taking any part you like:
Life is an opportunity for few,
and any of the blows that Fate may strike
might be a blow for you.

What kind of curse is that? To be
a swan, rambling from lake to lake,
seems more desirable to me
than being man of human make.

How often did I close my eyes
and wish I could be living on
the water under azure skies
and fly as deftly as a swan.

Evolution works through constant changes,
crossing creatures of each type and race:
any species that refused to mingle
disappeared from Earth without a trace.

Ancient royal families were staying
to themselves and married their own kind:
getting weaker by the generation,
all their lines eventually declined.

Nature’s a perpetual creator
and improves its creatures all the time.
Racism is incest; if continued,
man will be extinct before his prime.

When Ireland was the land of famine,
a lot of men escaped their fates
by setting sail and populating
Australia, Britain and the States.

But now that one can live in Ireland,
they guard their coast and keep at bay
the handful who are seeking refuge:
‘This is our country - stay away!’

Firstly, there is the working class:
with every building,
street, bridge and fountain
the future will remember.

Secondly, there’s the artist’s class:
with every painting,
song, film and poem
the future will remember.

And then we have the ruling class:
taking our money,
spending our money,
it soon will be forgotten.

With every breath he took in life,
a-tic, a-toc, a-tic, a-toc,
he felt a restless beat inside,
the ticking of an inner clock.
When as a child he played alone
or was asleep or having fun,
the clock inside kept telling him:
It must be done, it must be done!

When he grew up to be a man,
a labourer of rising stock,
he felt obliged to pay his dues
and tried to satisfy the clock
by keeping time and working fast,
yet all his efforts were outrun
by that device commanding him:
It must be done, it must be done!

The working rhythm took its toll,
and still the clock kept racing on,
so he decided to ignore
its beat, pretending it was gone;
but when he stayed in bed till noon
or lazed inertly in the sun,
the clock inside reminded him:
It must be done, it must be done!

It ticked and ticked as he grew old,
accompanied his dying breath,
and once again it picked up speed
to mark the moment of his death.
And if there is an afterlife,
it will continuously run
inside the spirit of a man
who still won’t know what’s to be done.

The King’s men visit every day
and take our wine and bread,
our water and our meat away:
the lords have to be fed.

‘A happy lord has happy serfs’,
they tell each man and child;
our lords are happy, but we serfs
have never even smiled.

And so we went to see the King,
appealing at the gates
to give us what is ours and bring
some food back to our plates.

He scrutinised our rags: ‘I see
where you are coming from,
but it is not that simple; we
must show a bit aplomb.

‘I’m sure you think your lords are bored
and idle; that’s not so,
for there is more to being a lord
than you will ever know.

‘They gave you work; with due respect,
demanding more is rude,
and they can certainly expect
a bit of gratitude.

‘You know you ought to feed your lords
who sit around the spit,
and he’s a thief who eats or hoards
the tiniest little bit.

‘But once your lords have had their fill,
which will be soon, perhaps,
round overloaded spits you will
be eating golden scraps.

‘The more they have, the less they need,
but if you’re taking back
what’s theirs, the noose of your own greed
will tighten round your neck!’

And so we starve from day to day
and watch disgustedly
our masters’ barbarous display
of greed and gluttony.

They stuff their face with food galore
all day and all night long -
‘They cannot possibly eat more’,
we think; they prove us wrong.

They eat until their stomachs split
while watching us collapse
as we still kneel around their spit
and wait for golden scraps.

The first I saw of Sligo
that chilly night in June
was the Cathedral’s tower
beneath a bright full moon.

Whichever forces drew me
were powerful and strong:
I’d finally encountered
the feeling to belong.

The traps of understanding
are set, the orchids lit,
and there will be no mending
of what our thoughts commit.

From Skreen to Polynesia,
from Bombay to Loch Ness,
from Cairo to East Frisia
man sees the stars, I guess.

And yet a clouded vision
begets a clouded mind
and leads to the collision
with every world behind.

The conscience that befell you
will not move in, I fear,
but who am I to tell you,
and who are you to hear?

Of all things bright and pretty
there’s one thing that remains
after the death of Pity:
a bonfire in our brains!

Dionysus' Day on the tenth of July
is the day when all passionate lovers comply
with desires they usually tend to dismiss:
he will grant her a wish after she granted his.

On Valentine's Day their true love they display,
but the moment of truth’s Dionysus' Day,
when lovers who heed Dionysus’ will
the secret desires of their partners fulfil.

How do we know a door is open,
how can we see a bird is free?
The question’s answer is the question;
if you’re confused, don’t bother me.

When autumn holds a mental harvest,
the trees turn over a new leaf
and bend their branches to the sunset
like anarchists who face their chief.

And when the world and all is over
and peace again has found a way,
we will be gathered round the campfire,
remembering this scarlet day.

They’re sitting at the table
with empty heart and mind,
not really there, unable
to struggle or to find.
There’s many a silent moocher
with his eyes fixed on his drink
and his back turned towards the future
who only drinks to think.

And as he keeps on drinking
to the state of mind he’s in,
he also keeps on thinking
of the life that should have been.
And it’s here they drink their potions
to forget their hopes and fears
with a fistful of emotions
and a pocket full of tears.

The piano man keeps playing
with poignancy and phlegm,
and sure it goes without saying
that he is one of them.
The barman never mentions
a family or wife;
some bet their meagre pensions
on whether he’s a life.

And when he ceases trading
and dims the gloomy light,
they leave and soon are fading
in the dreaded peace of night.
And it’s here they drink their potions
to forget their hopes and fears
with a fistful of emotions
and a pocket full of tears.

Since I was born, they’ve done my head in:
they meddle with my toys
and dart across my brain and bedroom
to look for secret joys.

The skibby men go through my drawers
and tear my home apart,
destroy the stuff they have no use for
and put it on a cart.

I stand and wonder in amazement
at all the bits they find
which I deemed lost or non-existent
in the Burren of my mind.

And every now and then they journey
down the forgotten track,
and I’m at ease, but in the evening
the skibby men come back,

Unloading from their trucks the heavy
scrap iron of my soul,
they throw it in my memory’s landfill
where Beauty takes its toll.

But when their day is done, they sometimes
light campfires in the dark,
sit on the corners of my pillow
and answer my remark:

‘We didn’t come, so we shan’t exit,
we’re barely here but last:
we all are fathers of the future
and children of the past!’

He was unreasonably vain,
though reason was his vanity,
but hunger of a world gone sane
is for the world’s insanity.

Oft I escaped my childhood self
where harmony I’d find:
the films about a pony farm
enchanted my young mind.

The carefree life on Immenhof
was where my psyche dwelt:
this was the childhood of my dreams,
this was the Heile Welt.

A generation afterwards
I found the sunlit shore
of Lough Nasool who called me twice
and who will call once more.

The coppices, the hills and lakes,
I noticed, overjoyed,
bring back the happy memories
I raised from celluloid.

This is the world of Immenhof
that I so much desired,
but though I’m, like we all, a child,
my childhood has expired.

A one, a two - a marching tune
to keep your mind beneath your feet,
to keep your loyalty immune
and stamp your orders in the street.

A one, a two - turn left, turn right
as we command you; think not, go!
The enemies you have to fight
are evil cos we tell you so.

A one, a two - salute before
superiors! (Superior? Ha!
Could anything on earth be more
ridiculous than soldiers are?)

Wherever there is concord,
wherever there is need,
wherever bards are encored,
she spreads the evil seed.

She preys on others’ slackness,
the bird who everywhere
into the dark brings blackness
and to the dead despair.

She angrily raged through the
island with her shrill voice
and finally came to the
weird county of my choice.

But she’s a bird of passage:
once my ordeal is through,
with one more urgent message
I’ll send her back to you.

Tinkey tinkey, have a drinkey:
every drink from me is free
if you’re coming home with me.

Tinkey tinkey, buy a minkey:
you may wear it for a bit
till I peel you out of it.

Tinkey tinkey, if you thinkey
that we’re doing what we ought,
you think more than I’d have thought.

Tinkey tinkey, sleep a winkey;
when you’re back from Lethe’s shore,
you won’t know me any more.

Let’s sail to the Moon after midnight
when the tide of the spirits is low,
for tonight is We’re-lifting-the-lid night
in the valley of Where-I-will-go.

Let’s sail to the Moon in my galley
made of wood gained from breathing your skin
as he smiles on the hills and the valley
of the bountiful country I’m in.

Let’s sail to the Moon with the lyre
that won’t play on the Occident’s ships,
with the chill of the song of desire
as the veil separating our lips.

Let’s sail to the Moon, let us nestle
in the nook we abandoned too soon,
let’s lie down in the stern of my vessel
as we dance to the pulse of the Moon.

On the roof of the world there are swallows
who all chirp from the depth of their breast,
there are sparrows and crows who are jousting
and the stork who is building his nest.
The odd squirrel collects the odd acorn
that got stuck in the tiles, and the sky
wears his friendliest blue for his creatures
with his light fluffy clouds sailing by.

In the garden most colourful flowers
are inviting the children to play,
and the living room sees happy people
as they rest at the close of the day.
Of all those who examine the basement
none comes back, yet the host stays polite;
he gets orders and thoughts in his bedroom
from the voices he hears in the night.

In the basement the gremlins are dwelling,
spraying carbon monoxide through cracks
in the ceiling; they poison the water
in the pipes and launch vermin attacks,
whisper slogans and chants through the floorboards
of the bedroom to kill and destroy:
they prepare for the day they take over
to get rid of all beauty and joy!

But even the gremlins are fearful
of the place that no tenant dare name,
for to think of (or mention!) the attic
brings disaster, misfortune and shame.
You may hear a strange scream, someone howling,
the strange silence that follows all woe -
but nobody knows what is up there,
and nobody wants to know.

For trees the word is winter,
for clouds the word is gate,
and every sword’s a splinter
in dolphins born too late.

I never asked the seasons
to care for bread or milk,
but they must have their reasons
who dress in shirts of silk.

It’s nice to dress a reason
in silk to make him look
presentable, and treason
will get him off the hook.

But where the streams are wilder
and where the salmon leap,
fatalities are milder
and puddles dark and deep.

At Hazelwood the salmon,
convinced that they are cursed,
swim with a slice of lemon,
preparing for the worst.

Where are they going,
those who stand by?
What are they showing,
those who deny?

When are we leaving,
we who must scorn?
Why are we weaving
clothes that aren’t worn?

A demon on a mission,
too hideous to tell,
the red-eyed apparition
that you have called from Hell,

The Detox Man will find you
when you’re asleep at night,
and he’ll sneak up behind you
to wake you with a fright!

The Detox Man will get you
just when you think that things
could not get worse; he’ll set you
straight with the fits he brings.

He’s utterly appaling,
unwavering and grim;
you almost feel like calling
the beast that conquers him.

The Detox Man will take you
where no man went before,
he’ll burn and chill and break you,
and then you’ll burn once more.

He’ll torture, poke and sting you,
and once he’s through with you,
the Detox Man will bring you
back to the world you knew.

Left on the doorstep of the Gods, he never
knew who he was and what he was about,
and so he looked for ways of finding out
rather than roam his guardians’ cloud forever.

One morning, just before the Earth was rising
and after having coffee with the stars,
he packed his toothbrush and his mem’ry jars
which held the arts of dream and self-surprising.

A gentle weirdness settled on the mountains
as a new trial galaxy was hedged,
the birds went to their worlds, and fully-fledged
deities gathered daisies at the fountains.

They didn’t notice him as he was crawling
past them across the pixie field with care -
or probably they did but were aware
he had to find the planet of his calling.

He took the night train to a constellation
on the horizon of the universe;
he heard men say their pray’rs and women curse
behind the styles and trolleys at the station.

And in the middle of the bustling city
the skilful carpenters pursued their trade,
and as he watched, the craft that they displayed
spoke out to him, a voice sincere and witty.

Soon he had learned their art and was respected
as one who wove his magic into ships
and carts; always a song upon his lips,
he build the chariots the Prince selected.

Invited to the court, he found the beauty
of life in wealth embezzled from the mob,
but when he caught him singing on the job,
the Prince himself released him from his duty.

Instead he was employed to play the lyre
before the Lords, the Princes and the King,
but as they picked the songs he had to sing,
he fled their world to find his mind’s desire.

And after many years of frugal squand’ring
he settled in the nursery of stars
and in that galaxy of chocolate bars
gave birth to what he called the child of wand’ring.

‘Who are you? And make sure you’re not mistaken’,
he whispered in his ear and gently smiled,
‘because it’s easy to mislead a child
onto the path the elders would have taken.

‘You may become a carpenter or singer
because I am, and let your true gifts fade;
maybe you are but choose another trade
‘cos your old man’s a carpenter and singer.’

The autumn planets shed their wisdom lightly,
enfogged in ages of the universe;
he went where gods and demigods rehearse
their Judgment Days and let their grace shine brightly.

He laid his son, as the last leaves were falling,
into a basket made of willow rods;
he left him on the doorstep of the gods
and sought again the planet of his calling.

We sat under the lotterbush
with daisies in our hair;
its flowers blossomed as we kissed,
and spring was in the air.

The lotterbush was where we met
when heart called out to heart,
and it was here we pledged our love
and said we’d never part.

The lotterbush sheltered our love,
and since it died away
no plant has grown, and not one flow’r
has seen the light of day.

But when I close my eyes, all things
that matter are still there:
I sit under the lotterbush
with daisies in my hair.

The trolls of the woodland in Phoenix
aspire to evolve into elves,
and the trigger to this aspiration
is they have no respect for themselves.

So they’re tying soft wings to their shoulders
and, while flapping their arms up and down,
they are jumping from cliffs at the ocean,
each one wearing a delicate crown.

My old granny is scanning the seashore
for their bones amongst driftwood and spam,
and she sells them for scrap to the army
where they make damn good soldiers of them.

The Paradise of Darkness
lies at the barren shore
of the fetches’ isle whose starkness
welcomes the weak and sore.

Where crows and vultures flourish
in many a sapless tree,
all dreams that you may nourish
become reality.

Old ghost ships in their rancour
spread terror, dread and fear;
a lot of vessels anchor,
but none departs from here.

You’ll lie upon the rubble’s
rough surface sunlight shuns,
forgetting your small troubles
since you found bigger ones.

It always is December
round the dark tow’r of rue,
and in its darkest chamber
your nightmares will come true.

The Gnomes sat at the campfire
and passed the cup around
while smoking the tobacco
their busy wives had found.

‘We are proud men’, their chieftain
declared, ‘what makes us great!’
With this he nudged his neighbour:
‘What are you proud of, mate?’

The Gnome who sat beside him
just raised the cup and smiled:
‘I’m proud I slew that badger
who tried to eat your child!’

The Gnomes in turn were drinking
the wine their chief supplied
while listing the achievements
that filled their hearts with pride.

‘I’m proud I put up the barrier
that keeps away the mice,
and proud to see those flourish
who ask for my advice.’

‘I’m proud I build the burrows
in which our folk are safe
and all the dams that shelter
our village from the wave.’

‘I’m proud I pick the tubers
that feed our families
and the nutritious mushrooms
I find amongst the trees.’

‘I’m proud that I am writing
the songs you sing (or try)
and all the hymns and ballads
we’ll be remembered by.’

The last of them had nothing
to add but raised the cup;
his lack of motivation
could never shut him up.

Waving the flag of Gnomia,
he, with his mouth afoam,
screamed with endearing madness:
‘I’m proud to be a Gnome!’

Born nineteen years after the monster
had gone and left its lair in ruins,
living with sixty million victims
who never talked about those days,
each time I saw an elder woman
or man, I wondered where they were.
I felt like screaming (but bit my tongue):
What did you do when you were young?

The priests, bus drivers, tramps and judges,
waitresses, dustmen, politicians,
retired couples on the park bench
or the old teacher at our school
may have appeared quite harmless – still
one never knows for sure, and often
I felt like screaming (but bit my tongue):
What did you do when you were young?

Three of the villains took their lives,
the remaining twelve were executed.
All others got away as servants
who followed orders; in the meantime
they died of (or are dying of)
old age, and it’s a shame I can’t
believe these people have to face
their judgement yet.

At the location of the Sphinx
near the deserted Theban wharf
you’ll always find a little minx.

Nobody listens to their shrinks,
to Richard Wagner or Carl Orff
at the location of the Sphinx.

For inspiration, friendship, drinks
and holidays in Oberstdorf
you’ll always find a little minx.

It’s hard to stay in shape, methinks,
for any girl and polymorph
at the location of the Sphinx.

Her bust was shaped by man and lynx,
and once you brushed away the swarf,
you’ll always find a little minx.

Don’t overestimate your jinx
and make an ogre of a dwarf:
at the location of the Sphinx
you’ll always find a little minx.

We all who are hiding her corpse in the cella
are temples of secrets too sacred to tell,
and those who were born with the Grey Arabella
will die with the Grey Arabella as well.

She teaches why man won’t be human nor clever,
why pleasures weren’t meant for disciples of her,
why only despair will be lasting forever,
while all of us listen without demur.

She gave us a backbone, a solid patella
and a bedridden spirit with whom we must dwell,
for those who were born with the Grey Arabella
will die with the Grey Arabella as well.

Phlegmatically chairing our minds’ torpid senate,
she always is with us – we still feel alone,
endure all the pains that are known to this planet
and make the world’s suff’rings our very own.

There’s no Before Midnight, still each Cinderella
must dance for the queens in the Ballroom of Hell,
and those who were born with the Grey Arabella
will die with the Grey Arabella as well.

You’re a hero made to measure
from the consecrated place,
and we’re grateful for the pleasure
to have met you face to face.

You have found the one solution
to the problem no one knew:
welcome to the institution,
we have been expecting you!

Leave your keys at the reception,
leave your worries at the door
and hand over that contraption
the director asked you for.

You have made your contribution
to the future we went through:
welcome to the institution,
we have been expecting you!

Nice young girls will entertain you,
nice young men in clean white coats
will sufficiently sustain you
with analysis and oats.

You prevented the pollution
of our doctrine from the pew:
welcome to the institution,
we have been expecting you!

You watched over your Queen and gave
your best to let her rule the wave
and all it is enclosing;
how does it feel, oh ancient brave,
when cows are gazing on your grave?

You have been fighting for Queen Maeve
when men and women didn’t shave
nor trimmed their hair for fashion;
how does it feel, oh ancient brave,
when cows are grazing on your grave?

You have been resting in your grave
for many thousand years and save
your strength for her arrival;
how does it feel, oh ancient brave,
when cows are lazing on your grave?

She stood at the door of the caravan
and stared at the radiant sky
when he drove to college in his
first convertible.

She sat on a box in the car park
and peeled the potatoes for supper
when his limousine brought him to church
on his wedding day.

She played with her kids in the alley,
dressed in anything others could spare,
when he went to his child’s First Communion
in his favourite suit.

She lay in a grave by the roadside,
unmarked, with no headstone nor flowers,
when the mourners followed his hearse
all the way to the churchyard.

We gazed at the sea and debated,
as they burnt our town to the ground,
the beauty of God’s creation
in everything around.

We basked in the sun that the Maker
made to bring light and life to this earth
as they butchered our friends in their houses
and spilled their blood on the hearth.

When they poisoned our water and cattle
and the others prepared for the worst,
we sat and admired the sunset,
and now we hunger and thirst.

And has this planet room for two?
We watch the darkness as it glows;
in everything we say or do
we see the velvet curtain close.

And yet, and yet we must abide
within our world, just you and me:
we must be moving with the tide
of a perennial galaxy.

Only one of the prophecies
can ever be fulfilled, and so
the birds are singing in the trees,
and one of us will have to go.

Son, the questions you are asking
are beyond your understanding;
where we’re from is hard to answer,
where we go to no one knows,
and with the dismal story of our people
a child your age should not be put to sleep.

Many hundred years ago our
forefathers have roamed the country,
led their cattle to new pastures
every now and then and brought
their family or tribe along; they worshipped
the gods that their own fathers served before.

But the growing population
caused a lot of other peoples
to migrate, take all lush pastures,
settle down and work the land
till finally no place was left where nomads
could rest and graze their cattle for a while.

Yet one family was lucky
as they were allowed to settle
on the fertile soil of Goshen
in the Kingdom of the Nile,
tax-paying subjects of a genial Pharaoh;
word spread, and soon all families were there.

Over many years they managed
to gain influence and power,
even to become advisers
to the Pharaoh and his court,
treasurers of the fabled gold of Egypt
and generals expanding his domain.

As the gods were feared, the priesthood
were the ones who ruled the country;
therefore Pharaoh Akhenaten
banned all gods bar one: the Sun
or Aten was to be the sole creator
in Pharaoh’s monotheon at the Nile.

Soon each reference to Amun
and the deities beside him
was removed, their names were chiselled
out of History; the priests
who could escape the sword went into hiding,
Thebes was deserted and its temples robbed.

Akhenaten built the city
Akhetaten for the Aten
and appointed us, his trusted
councillors, the Aten’s priests:
we were to organise the new religion,
its rituals, its creed and offerings.

Yet the subjects of the Pharaoh
ridiculed his silly concept:
Why would man and beast be struggling
if there only was one god,
how could the planet’s driving force of discord
have been created by one pow’r alone?

Ay, his Grand Vizier and uncle,
urged him to restore the other
gods and to abolish Aten;
Akhenaten wouldn’t hear
of it, but then our halcyon days were over
when Akhenaten died, no one knows how.

Tutankhamun, his successor,
was a boy, so the rapacious
Grand Vizier now ruled the Kingdom -
he brought back the ancient gods,
erased each trace and symbol of the Aten
and slew the priests who didn’t get away.

We still sacrificed to Aten
in the caves where we were hiding,
but we openly refused to
worship any other gods;
though we were persecuted and imprisoned
and even killed, we never lost our faith.

As he came of age, the Pharaoh
rediscovered the religion
of his father. First he worshipped
secretly and hid the priests;
when he reintroduced the cult of Aten,
his skull was smashed and Ay was back in charge.

He destroyed the Aten’s city,
massacred the priests and servants
he could find and quickly buried
Tutankhamun; the young King
and everything that had remained of Aten
were jammed into the tomb which then was sealed.

Many of our folk suggested
that we leave the hostile Kingdom,
but we had no place to go to,
so we had to stay and hide
our god from everybody else, for even
speaking of Aten meant a person’s death.

As his name could not be mentioned,
the believers called him Yahwe
(‘He whose name can not be mentioned’),
and we prayed to him each day
that he’d deliver us from persecution
and let us worship free and openly.

When the Nile turns red in springtime
and the birds sing in the palm trees,
everybody knows that Nature
has rung in another year
of teeming fish and overflowing harvests
that fill the granaries up to the brim.

But that year the Nile was redder
than it ever was, more shallow,
and its surface close to boiling,
teeming with dead fish, and some
Egyptians claimed it was the curse of Yahwe,
demanding that we all be put to death.

And as Egypt’s drought continued,
tension rose against our people
who were blamed for flies, eclipses
and increased mortality;
our call grew stronger for a forceful leader
who would restore us to our rightful place!

Atenmoses was our High Priest
who had lived in exile after
having murdered one of Amun’s
priests. He now returned and said:
‘They’re scared of Yahwe! We shall turn the tables
and threaten them until they let us be!’

Shortening his name to Moses,
he approached the grumpy ruler;
Ay, distracted, barely listened
to the lunatic who claimed
his god had turned the Nile to blood and even
blocked out the sun and slain their families.

In Midian he had witnessed
the destruction of the harvest,
and he figured that the locusts
soon would travel to the Nile.
He prophesied: ‘Locusts will take your harvest
unless you let us worship whom we want!’

Ay was bored and yawned, but Moses,
led away by soldiers, shouted:
‘And the plague will take a member
of each family this year!’ -
They threw him into prison and forgot him,
but children died, and then the locusts came!

Rotting corpses filled the delta
and could not be moved; the locusts
darkened Egypt’s skies, and no one
saw their hand before their eyes:
now Ay remembered Moses and gave order
to bring the lunatic before his throne.

‘It appears your god has power
over Egypt as he showed us;
you shall be allowed to worship
any god you like as soon
as you have cleared the fields and skies of locusts
and stopped the plague that kills our families!’

Moses, falling to his knees, gave
thanks to Yahwe, and he praised him
for the multitude of wonders
that had proved him god of gods;
he then petitioned him to end the suff’rings
of Egypt since he had achieved his goal.

Nothing happened. Moses gathered
Yahwe’s other priests who helped him
to erect a stony altar
where they sacrificed a lamb;
once more they thanked their god and prayed to Yahwe
to end the drought, the locusts and the plague.

But the children kept on dying
and the locusts multiplying;
Ay got restless, and his people
chanted: ‘Kill them! Kill them now!
They either can’t control their god, or Yahwe
does not have any powers after all!’

They threw stones, and nervous soldiers
waited as their tense commander
looked at Ay who slowly nodded...
‘Kill those mad heretics now!’ -
Army and people raged and stormed against us:
the sole escape route left was the Red Sea!

Never looking back, we hurried
towards the shore, jumped in the water
and implored our god to help us,
but we didn’t stand a chance:
the army killed our children, men and women,
their escapees were butchered by the mob.

We were swimming in our brothers’
blood, a handful of survivors,
and of those who reached the middle
of the Red Sea, many drowned;
of the ten thousands who had fled from Egypt
only a few have reached the other side.

So today we roam the desert,
nomads once again who have no
home and who must live as outcasts,
and we’re bound to wander on
until we find a people who are weaker,
kill them and have a country of our own.

Don’t deafen to the Ploughman’s Plight;
he has been fighting for his right
since Time began and longer,
and those who think he’ll be content
since his success is evident
could not be any wronger.

In days of old he walked behind
the ox to drive the plough and whined
about his exploitation
by his own ox; the one he broke
in listened, bore and pulled the yoke
till dying of starvation.

In their spare time the oxen got
together, and to ease the lot
of ploughmen, they constructed
ploughs with a comfortable seat
from which the ploughman dangled his feet,
pressurised and conducted.

The ploughman’s only duty now
was keep a straight line with the plough,
but chagrin kept remaining -
so oxen did invent a set
of ploughs that drive themselves, and yet
the ploughmen kept complaining.

And now it doesn’t matter what
they do, and if they work or not;
they have the time for hopping
on other oxen’s ploughs without
their own ox ever finding out,
and much more time for shopping.

When at the setting of the sun
at last his tiring work is done,
the ox collects his wages;
he buys himself a soup (at best),
the ploughman gets to spend the rest -
it’s been that way for ages.

And after work they’d meet in pubs,
and some of them in oxen’s clubs,
to get some peace and quiet;
ploughmen would bang against their doors,
demanding membership, and cause
disturbances and riot.

And finally they got their way:
there’s no more oxen’s club today
that ploughmen couldn’t join,
yet ploughmen founded many a club,
and if an ox dares to show up,
they kick him in the groin.

The oxen live till sixty-five -
who at that age is still alive
retires from Duty’s call;
ploughmen reach eighty years and more,
and they retire at fifty-four
(that’s if they work at all).

The ploughman has a set of rules
and will, helped by TV and schools,
enforce it and defend it:
he’ll teach the little bull calves how
to earn their money with the plough
and ploughkids how to spend it.

Some ploughmen would insist to pull
the yoke themselves; they’d find no bull
or want their independence.
Their colleagues wouldn’t understand
their attitude but give a hand
as equal rights’ defendants.

An ox, though, who would want to drive
a plough would be lampooned for life:
‘There is no point in rowing,
this proposition is a joke:
a ploughman may well pull the yoke,
but oxen can’t be ploughing.’

Some bulls carry their yoke alone;
one ox whose envy had outgrown
his fear of ploughmen’s bile
took action, trying to enforce
his right to legally divorce
his ploughman in a trial.

The judge, an ox, ruled loud and clear
(his ploughman whisp’ring in his ear):
‘I’m granting you permission
to leave your ploughman, but you will
have to give him your wages still,
your children in addition.’

To multiply the property
of ploughmen, oxen have to be
drafted for many a battle;
some of the ploughmen launched a fight
not for the duty but the right
to kill and die like cattle:

‘Ploughmen who want to die and kill
may do so on their own free will,
but not as slaves of nations,
because it’s equal rights we sought,
and we’d be stupid if we fought
for equal obligations.’

An ox, in case of perils, can’t
fail to obey the ploughmen’s chant
and save the lives they cherish:
‘Ploughmen and children first!’ (It fits:
they put themselves before the kids
and let the oxen perish.)

Now oxen, set your victims free
and join their force: the ploughmanry
in every land and nation
continue fighting for their right,
so let us heed the Ploughman’s Plight
and cease their exploitation!